


Córdoba

by rainbowjaeger



Series: Gallyafest [9]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: : )c, F/M, Gaby finally gets her dance, Gen, Light Angst, Mutual Pining, One Shot, Pre-Relationship, Solo loves a good honeypot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 10:05:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12130113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowjaeger/pseuds/rainbowjaeger
Summary: Gaby and Solo encounter Illya during a mission.





	Córdoba

“It seems a familiar face will be joining us tonight,” Solo said as they sauntered in. The ballroom was huge, with a chandelier hanging from the ceiling Gaby was sure was worth more than any car she’d ever worked on. They had arrived fashionably late as most of the guests were already inside, dancing and mingling. Some women clung to their men, afraid another sparkly-dressed woman would take him from her, and others roamed freely while chatting with one another.

“Let me guess – one of the lovely ladies I had kicked out of our suite in Paris? Or the one that tried to attack me after I told you it was time to leave that time in Los Angeles?” Gaby had always told Solo his taste in women was dangerous to say the least, but he remained unconvinced. She liked the men he occasionally brought home much better, they were much more laid-back and less jealous about their friendship. Because really, for all the missions they’d completed together, neither of them had any interest in the other beyond that. They were more like brother and sister, and Gaby was quite sure she was the first woman outside of his family to have that kind of relationship with Napoleon Solo.

The only member missing in their little family was Illya, who had been summoned to Moscow three months earlier. He had promised them he would be okay, and they had taken his word for it, promising in turn not to worry.

“No, I think this one will be much more to your liking. Your type – blond and stoic, is it not?”

Solo felt her hand squeeze the crook of his elbow as he guided her to an empty table out of the spotlights and in sight of the mark. As soon as she sat down her eyes started scanning the room. It didn’t take long to find him – his height and blond hair stood out in the sea of brown and black-haired Spaniards. He hadn’t spotted them just yet, but she was sure it wouldn’t take long. His target was likely the same as theirs: Lorenzo Valdez, a known fascist and playboy. Not quite on the level of the late Alexander Vinciguerra (or Napoleon Solo, for that matter), but his track record of women – and men – was impressive nonetheless. Gaby would be joining his endless list of flings at the end of the night, and she was not looking forward to it, especially now that Illya was here.

If all went according to plan, Gaby would get close to the mark – a honeypot, if you will – and have him take her to his room. She would have to act fast to neutralize him, before he could do anything to her. The thought of both outcomes sent chills down her spine.

She’d officially been an U.N.C.L.E. spy for just over a year now, and she’d killed three men so far, but none with a blade. She detested knives or blades of any kind because they required her to get close to her opponent. Not only would this be dangerous for Gaby as her small frame was at best an inconvenience in battle, but she would also have to kill her opponent with her own hands. A gun felt different, impersonal. She had still struggled to pull the trigger the first time, but she had gotten somewhat used to it now. “Somewhat” meant that she only woke up bathing in sweat twice every week or so. When Illya was still part of their team and they shared a room, he would comfort her every so often. Now, she only had her music and alcohol to soothe her pain.

She never got used to the morning after, when she and Illya would pretend nothing had happened, like she hadn’t spilled her soul just hours before. She knew it was for the best, to stay professional, but it still hurt.

“He’s looking quite dapper tonight, isn’t he?” Solo asked, trying to get some sort of reaction out of her.

“Solo, don’t,” was all she could muster. He complied, quietly taking a sip from his newly acquired drink.

They sat in companionable silence for a while. When Gaby emptied her second flute of champagne in several minutes, Solo figured it was time for action.

“Go to him,” he advised, continuing before she could protest like he knew she would. “You can’t finish the mission like this. I’ll take care of the mark. Besides, I caught wind that he prefers men anyway.” With a wink, Solo was off, and Gaby was left with no choice.

She made a show of getting up, the men stealing glances not escaping her, and briskly walked over to Illya. He must have heard the clicking of her heels, because he turned around just as she approached him. He was too late, however, to keep her from pulling him into a dance. After several months, the man made of stone was still like putty in her hands. It made her feel powerful, though his expression should have made her feel rather fragile.

“Don’t look so disappointed,” she tutted, the alcohol settling in her stomach. Her dinner with Solo had been a short one, Gaby deciding she wasn’t hungry and opting to go for a bottle of something strong instead. She knew she shouldn’t be going into missions drunk, but it had been a long time since she’d done a honeypot, and she hated it every time. She was supposed to be her own woman after escaping East-Berlin, and now she still wasn’t. Of course, realistically, she never had been. First property of Berlin, then of MI6, then of U.N.C.L.E. Being property of an organization, however, didn’t feel nearly as intrusive as being property of some rich fascist for an evening or two. Although she was a magnificent actress – Solo had deemed her so, and Illya had nodded in agreement – playing dumb was never fun. Admittedly, she didn’t know much about politics, but she wasn’t stupid. The men she had to surround herself with on missions treated her like a toddler, like they had to spell everything out for her. More often than not, they didn’t think it was worth it to explain the intricate political games they were playing to Gaby, thinking her dim, her only interests expensive jewelry and, occasionally, a romance novel.

“You should not be here,” Illya grumbled. He was obviously not pleased, but she also knew he couldn’t blame her for being here. He knew these kinds of parties didn’t attract Gaby, thus she wasn’t here of her own accord. A honeypot, he feared. Expensive parties and honeypots often came in pairs. “And you should not be making contact with me.”

“I thought you didn’t dance?” Gaby deflected. He was leading her into a perfectly fine Waltz. Perhaps the KGB had updated their training regimen, now including dancing lessons.

“I do not have time for this. I have work to do.”

Gaby gripped his hand tighter before he could let go. “I miss you,” she blurted out. His expression didn’t change – if anything, it became even icier.

“You have Solo.”

“It’s not the same and you know it.”

“What would you like me to do about it? I am property of Russia.” _Property_. Of course. She forgot she wasn’t the only one who was property.

“Just – Come back, okay?” Gaby was unsure if it was the alcohol that caused the knot in her stomach, but she trudged on anyway. “I understand you can’t just decide to take a flight back to London tomorrow, but… someday. Someday soon, preferably. Can you try?”

He wasn’t used to her pleading, on the verge of actual begging. His expression became more readable, and what she could see was sadness. Even so, a smile tugged at his lips. “You are impatient, you know that?”

“Always have been.”

Illya nodded, finally letting go of her hand. His other hand didn’t release her waist. “See you soon.” He let go of her waist and disappeared into the crowd, only the golden crown of his head staying visible in the crowd of tipsy, dancing couples.

Gaby held onto those words, determined she would receive news from Waverly any day now that their team would be together again.

She turned around to look for Solo, only to find him plying their mark with more champagne, having already planted a firm hand on the other man’s shoulder.

**Author's Note:**

> Every night I check the fic tag, and every night it pains me to see not much is updated. Every night I promise myself I'll write the next day, but I NEVER DO. I'm so sorry! Here's a short one-shot to make up for it.
> 
>  
> 
> I don't have the courage to read my writing from a year ago, when I tried and abandoned a multi-chapter fic of the team in Istanbul. Soon! I promise! Even though I'm sure I can't keep my promise!
> 
>    
> I love how some fic writers put little fun facts at the end of fics, but right now I got nothing haha. I don't actually know if the KGB supplied dancing lessons, but I'm pretty sure they didn't. Imagine, though. Oleg showing Illya how it's done and tearing up the dance floor like Nathan in that scene from Ex Machina.
> 
> Quick edit: I edited the title so it's a city again, because I forgot I did that in this Gallya series. Congratulations, Córdoba. You're the chosen one.


End file.
